Tenacious ways
by ShatteredPerceptions
Summary: Shattered Glass - Optimus Prime asserts his dominance claim over Rodimus while others watch. Sticky.


Title: Tenacious ways

Rating: MA+

Universe: Shattered Glass

Characters: Optimus, Rodimus, Ironhide, Ricochet, Jazz, Prowl

Warning/Notes: Entirely written by vectorsigma3441 (on LJ). This fic has masturbation, violence, crude words and actions. . . be warned.

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"-which is why I believe that the strategy of sending the special ops northeast will work the best. There are clearly no teams in that area, and any other opposition can be easily… stopped … with the right application of logic and tactics…" Prowl trailed off from his speech at the head of the table, optics intent on Optimus Prime, whom he thought could only be taking half of what he said in, the other half of the Prime's attention was cast upon a glowering Rodimus.

There was only Prowl, Rodimus, Jazz and the Prime himself at the meeting. Of course there was Ironhide in one corner off to Optimus's right, and Ricochet in the direct opposite – but they didn't matter, they would never speak unless asked.

Even though Optimus's attention wasn't perfectly fixated on the tactician, he was easily able to take everything in and process it – and even create a counter scenario.

"Yes Prowl, I agree with most of that statement, but I refuse to send out so many of my highest trained," he spoke, deep baritone rumbling, returning his red optic gaze back to Prowl.

Jazz flickered a little smile at the tactician with his palm hiding most of his expression, his visor flashing a shade lighter. That plan had been made for him, and he would've ended up preparing and doing the rest of it. He was busy enough as it was, and he knew that Prowl was only doing his best to get him killed in a roundabout fashion. Like usual.

Optimus did not miss the small exchange, and it only served to remind him about Rodimus again. He turned his impassive gaze upon his immediate lieutenant and stared at him, daring some insubordination out of him. There was none, and the traitor turned his head away, optics cast downwards. Jazz only grinned wider at this.

"Rodimus," the Supreme Commander spoke, and that was enough to spur the other mech into action. A scowl briefly crossed the 2IC's faceplates as Rodimus's red optics came upon Jazz, who was consequently seated right across the table from him, only a short lunge away.

"Yes, sir?" he spoke quietly, turning his belligerent, though somehow submissive optics upon his leader.

"Go into the next room and fetch my electro-whip."

"Yes, sir."

Jazz let out a cackle, as did Ricochet at almost the exact same time, and even a small smile appeared on the tactician's facial plates. Ironhide let out a guffaw, and his optics brightened at the impending promise of a good show – for more than one reason.

A shiver ran through Rodimus at those words, but he stood up, roughly pushing his chair away and strode across the way, lowering himself to bow before the Prime shortly, and then padded into the next room.

Rodimus fumbled around for a moment as he looked for it, annoyed that Prowl seemed to have taken it upon himself to reorganize anything that he touched. Then he found it, coiled so innocently, and wrapped his digits around it, glaring.

The handle on it was long and thick, twining twists of metal to meet at the very end where an intricate Autobot symbol was, though the purple paint on the figure was scratched and worn from use. It was odd, that part of the whip was usually never touched, a hand wouldn't even rest there…

Drawing a breath through his intakes, steeling himself, Rodimus appeared in that room again, and this time came up along the Prime's side, where he then bowed when he was flush with the leader's side of the chair, kneeling down on the floor. He forced himself to ignore the chortling of Jazz while he handed the whip over to Optimus, letting go of the device as if it were the anathema.

It was handled deftly in the Prime's hand, and he pointed with one finger for Rodimus to move in front of him.

No more words were needed, and Rodimus did just that, rising to stride a short distance, and then kneeled down again, this time with his back faced to the Prime. The 2IC braced himself on the floor, digging his claws into the plush flooring, waiting for the pain.

The whip unrolled and the end fell innocently to the floor, all of the optics in the room besides Rodimus and Optimus's were fixed to it, and Jazz was even craning his head to see.

With a smart flip of his wrist it flicked out to strike against Rodimus's back plating, though it was still turned off. Even so, Rodimus flinched anyways. He liked to think of it as the 'teaser' strike. Sometimes it would be on, other times it would be off.

Through all of this, he forced himself to think of the most sordid thoughts that he could, the deepest and most sensuous interfaces he had ever done, had heard of, or had imagined. There would be far more consequences if he didn't, and far less painful if he did.

That first strike resounded throughout the room and Rodimus gritted his denta harshly and didn't make a sound.

The second and third produced whimpers, but otherwise Rodimus didn't move, his claws only sunk further into the flooring as he contained himself. The other mechs of the room watched with eager looks, though Prowl's was distant and cold, Optimus's as well.

Finally after several slices with that whip, ones so strong and hard he could feel them cut right through his thick back plating, he relented.

"Ah! I-I'm sorry!" he cried out, face twisted in pain as he involuntarily arched up, but then hurriedly lowered himself before he was punished for that as well.

But those strikes continued, heedless of his cries, or of Jazz's loud laughs of glee. The Prime didn't care if any others took pleasure in it, that's what the purpose of it was. To make an example out of him. Still the question arose of how this mech had ever come to the position of 2IC, or had so maintained it over the years. Why would such a mech as treacherous and worthless as Rodimus continue to be allowed to function in service to the faction? Only Prime knew the answer to that question, and he didn't seem particularly inclined to tell it to anyone else.

Pain was ripping through him, de-magnetizing his plating to make it burn inside and out, and everywhere along the wounds on his back when Prime finally stopped. They were all bleeding energon, the purplish liquid trailing down his back plating to meld together at the curve of his spinal strut, disappearing down the plating of his aft to run between his legs. He could only lie on the floor and groan, unable to support himself any longer.

Ricochet had already risen, his plate open and spike extended. Jazz angled himself towards his brother and then turned his chair towards him, spreading his legs. His panel was open as well, and Jazz trailed his fingers around his valve, toying with the shining lubricant around the rim, a lazy-pleasured look on his face.

As he approached, Ricochet drew Jazz's head up harshly and crushed their lips together, bucking his hips forward as the saboteur wrapped his fingers around the base of his spike, then moved down to draw his thumb over the tip. There was no resistance in Jazz for once. He was just as excited as his twin.

Optimus gave a soft chuckle at the action of the two others, not perturbed in the least. He was still seated in his chair, gazing down at Rodimus. "Up," he commanded, motioning for the mech to come closer.

Pain rolled through Rodimus's joints and plating, but he forced himself to kneel up and crawl over, placing a kiss on the pede of the Prime's before he reached up and latched his claws to the tabletop, hauling himself up. He knew what was to happen now.

Thankfully the table was lower than he was when bent over, and though it would put more strain on his newly created wounds, it would help in this… predicament, or punishment. Letting the table press into his stomach plating, he drew himself over and rested on it, aft up and displayed, along with his plate. Spreading his legs, allowing for better access, he gritted his denta and tried to ignore the sounds of Jazz bent down and pleasuring his twin with his mouth, the two so close to him he could feel the hot air from their vents.

The Prime gave his subordinate a look, one of undeniable amusement. It was hard to tell what he was feeling just because of the mask in place, but Rodimus had grown adept at the body language that the Prime used, along with those sharp glints that appeared in the mech's optics from time-to-time. Rodimus let his plate slide open, revealing all of the sensitive components below, and then he started in, saying those lines that were so well rehearsed, "Please Master, _please, _take me…" he begged, though his voice didn't sound like he was completely into it, and he darkened his optics as he waited. Prime was just a worthless tyrant, no matter how much support or un-support he garnered himself, no matter what type of brutes surrounded themselves around him.

His gaze flickered to Ironhide in the corner who was still watching the Prime, a hand fastened over his spike, aimlessly stroking upon himself. Disgusting they all were. He heard movement, and Prowl came around to the Leader's side to bend down and excuse himself. He never was one to take much joy in this part of the show. Not as much as Ricochet and Jazz, who now had changed positions, the saboteur gyrating up and down on his brother's spike, hands gripped tightly to that insane mech's shoulders. Disgusting.

A hand wrenched at the plating on his hip to the side, nearly tearing it off, but effectively dragging him closer. Rodimus could only moan in pain, not finding the strength to do much more. These sessions weren't for him to enjoy at all, only for his leader, always for the leader. Everything was done to please Optimus.

"Ah!" he cried out as something was abruptly thrust in his valve, feeling it scrap painfully along those sensitive walls. Oh how it hurt so bad, and he could barely managed to writhe on the table, unable to get away. A whine burst from his vocalizer when he could still see Optimus sitting in his chair. The leader had used the handle of the whip.

"You act like this is the first time," Optimus commented, and Rodimus could see his smirk from the color of his optics.

"Nngh! No Master! Surprised me!" Rodimus yelped out, clawing deep furrows into the table from the combined pain of his back and valve. It was anything but arousing, but he forced himself to like it. That piece of metal was thrust in further, and he let out a low groan, and then it was pulled back to be rammed back in, stretching out sensitive components, rubbing too tightly across the rubber-like lining of his valve.

Rodimus was rocked forward onto the table, his chassis and helm grating into high squeals of metal, leaving streaks of purple and black paint behind with each rough stroke. He could only dim his optics and take the assault as more lubricant slicked his valve while he groaned and moaned out at random intervals. A higher voice caught his attention, one that was a smooth tenor. Jazz.

"Mmm, _yes, yes, yes!_" the mech chanted out as his brother's claws wrapped around his shoulders to pull him more forcefully down on his spike. Rodimus could smell the heated lubricants from the saboteur, and from himself, and it made his tanks churn. Another hissing noise left him as he was pushed forward more forcefully. Optimus always brought him close to his overload, waited until Rodimus's valve was nice and tight before he started himself. There was something about the tight suction that the leader positively loved. Who was he to deny such a mech? There was no way he could.

After a few more rough strokes, strokes that pressed against his valve and stretched those sensitive walls so they brushed up against clusters of nodes and wiring, he could feel the beginning of his overload. Writhing and unable to escape, he gripped tighter to the table, feeling the metal give under his fingers as a wave of tension moved through him, pulling him closer to overload, more of that lubricant lining his valve.

Like every other time he felt the handle of the whip abruptly leave him, causing him to cry out in pain as it was scratched along his valve walls when he reflexively clenched down around it. Optimus did that to make sure he didn't overload right away.

That end of the whip was placed near his face, and Rodimus obliging curled his digits around it to bring it to his mouth to start licking the lubricant that was covering it in a glimmering sheen. Barely could he see his leader rise up, but Rodimus repositioned himself so his hips were pointing up as far as possible while he spread his thighs further, waiting for the pain that was soon to be.

When Optimus Prime was aroused there was no use denying him. Not that anyone in their right or even _wrong _mind would. You refused and you got interfaced with anyways, and then you'd take a short walk down to the smelting pits to be that nights entertainment, only after being ravaged by the rest of the army.

Wrapping his glossa around the twisting metal, he took some of it in his mouth, cleaning it off. A hand gripped to his back where those lash marks were and he could only give a low anguished moan of pain. That hand traveled up, moving along to the metal of his shoulder, easily piercing through to tangle with the internals below. He heard a click and knew it was Optimus's plate, and he waited with some anxiety, and also with a wave of arousal.

Rodimus jerked in surprise as the mech pressed close to him and grunted when the Prime pressed one hand down on the back of his helm, rubbing his face on the desk below. Rodimus pulled the end of the whip out of his mouth just in time and hissed in pain as his cheek guard was scrapped into the table.

"Rodimus, you need to learn your place. I'm getting sick of your insolence," the supreme commander spoke, punctuating each word with a shove to his head, metal screeching painfully.

"I-I'm sorry, _Master,"_ Rodimus replied, feeling the end of Optimus's spike prod the rim of his valve. "_Please, _Master…" he moaned out, shifting his stance wider. The sounds of Jazz and Ricochet had stopped for a moment as they looked with greedy optics to him.

Sharp fingers buried into his neck tubing, taunting him to make a wrong move, and pain suddenly erupted from within him. Optimus was no small mech and his spike wasn't either.

"Uhnn…" Rodimus hissed out, unable to get more than that because of his face being pressed into the slab of metal below. Sensors burned within his valve as he felt Optimus's spike in him, and he cried out from how tight his valve already was. Then the mech began to move and pure agony washed through him. With any other mech it would have been nearly impossible, Optimus was simply too big, but Rodimus's own frame size wasn't that far off from the leader's, and if he hadn't been so close to overload already it would have been manageable, and probably even pleasurable.

Though he couldn't see the mech behind him, he knew that Optimus probably had that same glint in his optics he always did, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed he didn't take a great amount of joy in these ordeals because there was hardly ever a deviation from his appearance of which could be seen, and hardly any noise besides soft grunts and groans left him. Rodimus was of the firm opinion that the mech could overload and not even show it.

His valve was stretching to accommodate even as he was drawn closer to his overload again. Every strong thrust rocked him forward, where he would then slide back to meet the leader mech. It would be much more unpleasant if he didn't. Pain was starting to be blotted out by pleasure, and Rodimus refused to look up at Jazz and Ricochet as he moaned, this time in pleasure, fighting his hips back against those thrusts.

Suddenly his haze of pleasure was cut short when one of Optimus's hands pulled his hips back from being ground into the table and reached underneath with one hand to play with Rodimus's spike housing. Quite violently Rodimus brought his forearms up and dug his claws into the table to brace himself so Optimus's hand wasn't pinned underneath him and also so his own extending spike wouldn't get smashed into the table.

It was a fight now, a struggle, to not let that sensitive piece be ground into the table. Oh that would hurt something terribly. Optimus's hand stroked along his length, not mean or harsh at all, it was enough for Rodimus to use all the strength he could to keep himself steady. Finally he ended up bringing his hands back to grip at the edges and arch his hips up sharply when Prime started to move faster, thrusting in strong and fast circles.

Spasms started as his valve started to clench down, the lubricant still providing seamless movement inside of him. As he overloaded he hardly had the clarity of mind to keep himself balanced and the tip of his spike brushed roughly into the table and he gritted his denta in pain, not saying a thing as he reached his climax. Two could play at this game.

Still, that hand continued to stroke up and down his spike, caressing the tip as he whimpered from the continued stimulation from his valve. Finally after what seemed far too long Rodimus felt that tension ripple through the other's frame, and both of the leader's hands came back to grasp at Rodimus's hips, roughly pulling the mech down on himself as he overloaded as well, not breathing out a word.

He was roughly shoved forward and Rodimus hardly had time to brace himself – his spike was still extended. There was something far too arousing about this situation than should be possible for him. His inherent Autobot nature demanded that he be taken rough and fast.

Optimus finally moved out, leaving a trail of transmetal fluid as well as lubricant after him. He then sat back down in his chair acting as though nothing had occurred, only giving a soft grunt as he settled back.

Jazz and Ricochet were both on the floor now, having overloaded twice, still tangled together. The saboteur still had his brother's spike buried to the hilt in his valve, and he didn't seem inclined to move.

Relaxing back into his chair and bringing his long and slender fingers to the armrests, Optimus murmured, "On your knees."

Oh no. Not this. This part was the worst, always was, and probably always would be. Unless the mech found some new way to humiliate him.

Letting himself slip from the table, Rodimus fell to his knees and instantly wrapped his hand around his spike before the order was even given. Then, the other part. Rodimus looked up, into Prime's optics, and began stroking himself. He wasn't allowed to look away, had never been permitted that simple luxury.

Somewhat aimlessly he stroked and squeezed himself, running his fingers along from base to tip, bucking and thrusting into his own hand. His red optics turned blank even though his expressions were not. His vents were already whirring steadily and they clicked up again as his frame started pinging with heated metal. Pleasure coiled through him again, long and lazy tendrils and he couldn't help but moan, nearly losing the concentration to keep his gaze locked with the Prime's while he pleasured himself. A familiar tingle started to build in his lower chassis and he worked faster, bringing one hand to play at the tip of his spike while he kneaded himself with the other.

Through all of this he had only parted his lips while his optics glazed over, making no other noises –which was okay for now. Sometimes Prime demanded the pleasured noises, grunts and moans, other times he didn't particularly care.

Rodimus whimpered as he climaxed again, nearly shutting off his optics fully, this time spilling his own transmetal fluid in his hand. He brought his digits to his lips and made a show of licking the sticky clear fluid off, trying not to heave his tanks at the taste. It was degrading, and humiliating, but he managed to make himself enjoy it just a little bit. After all, he was resilient. There was nothing Optimus could do that could possibly break him, short of death.

"Go," Optimus spoke, raising a giant hand to the atrium doors, motioning for him to leave.

Rodimus closed his plate and moved forward to kiss Prime on the foot, and backed away and stood, defiance in his optics already. A little sneer enveloped his facial plates as he passed by, just where Optimus wouldn't be able to see it. This was nothing, and if this _politician, _no, this _commoner,_ thought he could change it; he was in for a very big surprise.

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